I am the car crash

First therapy session today. I have been in and out of therapy since I was 13 years old. But, this was the first session with the latest therapist. I always hate the first one. It’s the ‘Get to Know You’ session in  which I have to relive every depressing or anxious moment in my life. I don’t blame them. They need a starting point. But you’re meeting a stranger who now wants you to share with them every dark moment of your life. Trust me, it can be exhausting and emotional. Aside from the obvious emotional toll it took on me, I enjoyed her presence and what she saw for our future.

In one quick hour it was decided that I will probably have to rework the way I narrate my life, or my “script” as she called it. I tend to focus heavily on what goes wrong, what will go wrong, and how I negatively impacted the situation or the people involved. I know she’s right, but no one likes to hear it, let alone from a stranger. It was also decided that my idea of a secure attachment to people may be largely outside of the normal, healthy approach. This includes family, friends, and romantic endeavors. This is also pretty true. I am either clingy or distant. Those two extremes are the driving force behind my interpersonal relationships.

You could tell she enjoyed me. She kept smiling after explaining something. She finally said, “You get it. I’m sure that’s why it’s more frustrating for you. Because you see all of this happening and understand it, you just can’t control it, stop it, or find the triggers.” She was right. I do get it. And, yes, it is frustrating. It’s like looking at two cars. You know they are going to crash. you know that there will be injury. You know that the mess left after the crash will be hard to clean up. You even know that one car is entirely to blame over the other one. But there you sit, before the disaster unfolds, knowing it’s about to happen, also knowing that you have no clue how to stop it. That’s my life. My heart incurs the injury, my relationships are the mess I clean up, and I am the only one to blame.

What I’m hoping for is to see the car crash coming and stop it, or make it a little less detrimental to the innocent people involved. Even if I can swerve out of the way at the very last second, that’ll be progress. I’ll take a ditch and self-injury over a head on collision. It would nice too, though, if my brakes worked.

I’d say that metaphor is all but worn out.

Dirty, shameful fishbowl

When you’re 13 and coming home from the hospital after swallowing a gallon of black tar, you are, at the same time, swallowing the bitterness of resentment. That’s all I really felt. My mom and step-dad resented me for pulling them out of work, for making a big show, and more than anything, for having a dad that rushed to my side out of compassion and concern. We got back to the house and I remember two things being told to me: First, “This door needs to stay open at all times” and “No one at school needs to know about this.” I suppose I couldn’t expect much more. My door did remain open, and I felt like I was in a fishbowl; I was in a dirty, shameful fishbowl. And of course I couldn’t tell anyone at school. What would my family do if they had to take ownership of a sad, lost, conflicted, and anxious daughter who dreams of car crashes and funerals?

The first thing I did when I got to school was tell my best friend.

It wasn’t long after the open-door policy was established that I decided to move in with my dad. It was such a burden on him, and I still feel a little guilty. Of course it was a big ordeal because there were courts and money involved, and it added fuel to a fire that had been burning for over a decade. My parents got divorced when I was six months old. Since then, constant custody and child support battles caused tension and anger, with my two older sisters and I right in the middle of it all. This would be the first time I was allowed to live with my dad full-time. I had asked many times before, but my mom wouldn’t budge. I doubt it had anything to do with me, and a whole lot more to do with ‘winning’ over my dad. This time, though, my wish was granted. On my dad’s end, he wanted what was rightfully his in the switch: child support. He had been paying my mom for 12 years, the amount going up each time she and my step-dad had each one of their three children, and he wanted to be on the receiving end of the money game for once. That battle didn’t end until after my 19th birthday.

The reason I was a burden was mostly because we had never lived together before. I was bitter and angry about a lot of things and, as much as I loved him, I was combative about everything. He was pulling 12 hour shifts in the hospital and now had to figure out how to get me to and from school. He was now responsible for my laundry, my cleanliness, my bedtime, my homework, my grades…everything he was never allowed to be involved in before was now his sole responsibility. It was stressful for both of us. I was doing really poorly in school, with an even poorer fashion sense (safety pins as earrings?). I thought I could pretty well manage: anything was better than living in my dirty, shameful fishbowl again.

That was my thought until my dad drove by a house close by my school one day. He was renting a place in a bad neighborhood in downtown. He pulled into the driveway and started talking about being in the school district, buying the house, a little tight but he would find a way…And my entire body tensed. I was about to throw up. I felt pangs of guilt and regret and disgust for myself. I was about to make my sweet, loving dad buy a house out of his budget for my sake. He was about to risk financial stability to give me stability. As nice as that notion may seem to other people, to me it was disturbing. I could never ask my dad to do that for me. What if we couldn’t work out all our differences and I moved out? What if my mom finds a way to get me back, and I have to move out? What if X, Y, Z … and I moved out? It was a long list of What if…[followed by]…and I move out? I couldn’t ask him to give so much for me, when I was so selfish about everything.

There was no other solution. I opted to move back to my dirty, shameful fishbowl over being a dirty, shameful daughter to the father I loved so dearly, I couldn’t process something going wrong and me hurting him emotionally and financially. He dropped me off at school one day and I got out, dropped a letter on the passenger seat, and told him I loved him. It was in that moment that I felt the most hatred towards myself. Even now remembering it makes me well up with tears. I was afraid that theoretical “what ifs” would theoretically hurt more than just running from the entire situation. I realized far too late that I destroyed a grown man with a few words in an envelope, and that man happened to be the only one who could save me from my dirty, shameful fishbowl.

Are you okay?

I decided it was time. Not just for this blog. It was about time I got back to my writing ways. Time I attempted to work through the good, the bad, and the ugly. Time I was open and honest, with myself and everyone else in the world. These decisions come after not being allowed to decide. The most influential part of my life is out of my control. I don’t decide when to light the fire or blow it out. It comes out of nowhere, haunting me and reminding me that, because it’s back, I have failed. Perhaps my biggest goal is to read this post in a month, a year, a decade and feel differently. For now, I’m out of control and ashamed. My depression and anxiety have come back full swing, reminding me that I can’t decide when or if I want them (obviously my choice would be never).

I was 13 when I first realized something wasn’t quite right in my head. I was watching Saved By The Bell in the morning before leaving for school and this wave of ideas came over me. My plan was soon in motion, without hesitating to tell my mom I was so sick I couldn’t go to school. She has no choice but to go to work on such late notice, and I was left home. I reveled in the silence for a while, knowing that soon my life would be loud. I wrote a note, and have no clue what I said in it. Took off all my jewelry, somehow thinking that it was necessary. I went upstairs and the strongest thing I could find was Motrin. It didn’t matter. I wanted numbness. I wanted attention. But I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to die. I felt in control of my life and destiny. There were only 13 pills left in the bottle. And still, it didn’t matter. I planned to crawl back into bed and see what happened…then I wondered if 13 pills would really do harm. It was all whimsical until that moment. I truly mean whimsical. I loved the feeling of flare and decision-making. I loved feeling like I was aware of what I was doing, and fantasized about the outcome.

I called Poison Control or something (for being such a pivotal moment in my life, you’d think I would remember explicit details). They asked if I had sharp knives around, and I thought that was a silly question. The ambulance was dispatched and had called my mom and they both arrived at the same time. My mom decided to take me in her car, as opposed to my riding in the back of an obvious vehicle with flashing lights (my family loves attention, when it’s for the best. Attention out of embarrassment, not so much). The ride there was bitter cold. She was mad. I pulled her out of work. I caused a scene at home. I just created an entire day of ER. She called my step-dad and he was planning to meet us there. It got colder with the three of us in my hospital room. I hunkered my shoulders and stared at the floor. My feelings of power and elation had evaporated. I was meek and mild, and felt devastation wave over me. My dad showed up a little bit later. He asked the question no one else had. The question that reaffirms people’s care for you, especially in times of hardships. He burst in the room, with a little scowl at my step-dad, and rushed to my side. After hugs and kisses, he leaned closer, forcing me to look in his eyes and asked, ‘Are you okay?”

It may seem silly, but I really just needed someone to take interest in my well-being as an individual. That concept may be basic to some, but for me it wasn’t. Living in a house of 8, emotions and attention got rotated through the kids without any sincere effort on the part of my mother. The same can’t be said for my step-dad, who was either awful at hiding is dislike for his step-kids or wasn’t trying to hide it. I was special at nothing, passionate about nothing. I was quick to anger, sadness, guilt. I wanted to disappear, or be invisible. I would daydream in the car about what it would be like to die in a horrible car accident, but still be able to watch everyone’s reactions. I didn’t blame the people in my life for disliking me. But the self-hatred and guilt seemed to pile on. I was buried in nasty thoughts and feelings.

All I really needed was someone to ask, “Are you okay?” The obvious answer in my head was always “NO!”…but no one ever asked. And I suppose when you’re 13 you don’t know how to approach those sorts of things. But, now I’m 22. Although the depression and anxiety have returned once again (the above story is just the tip of iceberg), I’ll be using this outlet to fight my way to a place in time when someone, anyone, everyone asks, “Are you okay?” and my answer will be “Yes”.